Tag: queso

It seems like the last few posts I’ve written have included an announcement of some sort – new jobs, big moves, confessions of murderous rage, etc. Well, hold onto your hats because another one’s coming:

My queso quest is coming to an end. Sort of.

Deep breaths. It’s okay to cry. I’ll pause for a second so you can grab some tissues.

In a couple of months, my same-named cheese-friend/co-cheese-judge/co-cheese-conspirator Amanda is moving quite far from this area – to a place in Texas where wildflowers are scarce, but love of queso is still plentiful. To a place so far away, that if I were to take a horse-drawn carriage to visit her, it’d take me at least a fortnight to get there.

Sadly, the distance will make it too difficult for us to keep reviewing on a regular basis, so we’ve decided to press the “pause” button on the project for now. It’s not a full stop, because there may still be occasional reviews when one of us visits the other.

Before you get concerned about me experiencing dangerous cheese withdrawals, I assure you that I’ll continue eating fermented dairy at a frequency that the medical community would find concerning.

With all the sad stuff said, Amanda and I decided that one more queso review was necessary before she moves. She and her kids visited me for a weekend of adventures, and in between touring beloved Austin sites, we squeezed in a visit to Polvos. Before leaving my apartment for the day, her kids performed an impromptu (and rather unprofessional) video interview of the queso judges.

At the restaurant, we quickly ordered the Choriqueso, and then cheerfully sang along with the music, which unexpectedly featured a lot of Beatles songs for a Tex-Mex place. I hear that Ringo was a big fan of enchiladas and carne guisada, so this makes perfect sense.

Here’s a beauty portrait of the queso when it arrived. Swoon.

As we munched, Amanda and I began reminiscing on our cheese journey and all the quesos we’ve been experienced thus far. We decided that despite the variation in scoring, these dishes all fall into one of three categories:

So disappointing that I want to cry into the bowl, which isn’t a terrible idea, as the salt from my tears might make it taste better

Enjoyable, and would order again, but is not all that memorable

So delectable that I want to eat whatever this cheese touches, including the napkin and my own face

I’ll cut to the chase: the queso at Polvos falls in that middle category with a score of 3.8. It was of the baked flameado style, which is dear to our hearts. This variety is meant to be lovingly scooped and coaxed into tortillas, and the consistency of this dish was perfect for that task. There was also no shortage on meat and poblano peppers, which provided lots of flavor.

However, the cheese in this dish was quite mild and didn’t provide much flavor of its own, which kept it from reaching that elusive 4-point rating. It doesn’t stand out like the ones above it do.

Still, not a bad queso to pause our journey on!

To read up on our specific judging criteria, OR to see a ranked list of all the quesos we tried, visit Queso Scoring.

Approximately one year ago, inspired by a blog challenge by Bubbles & Beebots, I wrote a letter to my future self. Which is now my current self. Back then, I was pretty certain that I would forget about the letter and never remember to write a response back, but somehow that memory managed to claw its way into my consciousness.

High-five, memory! I forgive you for all the things you’ve lost over the years. Minus the time you left Grandma at the airport. That’s unforgivable.

Anyway, it’d probably make much more sense for you to read my 2016 letter first. But if you don’t want it to make sense, then you don’t have to read it. Perhaps you prefer to live dangerously. I like that.

Dear 2016 version of me,

Hey look – we’re still alive! Well, mostly. Up until this point, you have tested a whopping twenty-two different queso dishes. That’s a lot of dairy and dead animals. Medical professionals might call it excessive, but I call it sensible. This gal ain’t gettin’ no osteoporosis.

Back then, you wondered whether Sazón would still in the lead, and it is, BUT it’s now sharing the cheese crown with your beloved Mamacita’s. Sadly, my friend and fellow cheese-tester and I have not gone on a quest in a few months. You see, we got into a fight over which flavor of cheese is the best. Things got heated, and then I accidentally whacked her on the head with a block of aged gouda.

It happens.

So, 2016 self, I know you were hoping that I would use this year to become older, wiser, and fancier. Listen up, because I have good news and bad news. The good news is – you’re indeed a fully-licensed professional counselor, and you’re now in private practice. Never saw THAT coming, did ya? Your biggest fear is uncertainty, and you frequently thought about sticking with what you know for the sake of security, but something inside kept pushing and poking you to do more.

And it was not a food baby.

Okay, now for the bad news. I know you were really hoping that you’d be cooking more well-balanced meals by now. You’re nearing thirty, after all. But it turns out, 2017 You still really likes eating ham cubes straight out of the package. If it makes you feel any better, you’re still paying bills, doing laundry, and even vacuuming – which you loathe more than corgis loathe large vegetables.

You’re clearly not lazy. But you seem to have been born without the part of the brain that enables you to plan normal meals and follow through on them. Instead, you stand in front of the open fridge and stare at the plentitude of foodstuffs that you bought with the ignorant hopes that they’d inspire you to change. Then, you start thinking about how many steps are involved in making those meals, and suddenly you feel a little less inspired and a little more apathetic. Pretty soon, you’re gnawing on a cold hot dog while you stand there – still staring. Still waiting.

And then you give up on the idea of dinner, like the sad, cold-hot-dog-eating pretend-grown-up that you are.

It’s okay. It’s a disease. You can’t help yourself.

Let’s see, what else did you want to know about me? Oh, right. You’ll be amazed to know that you’re typing this letter on a decrepit 11-year-old laptop. That’s right, IT’S STILL ALIVE TOO! Mwahahahha!!! (Sorry, that was the laptop laughing.) At least you purchased a cuter and smaller one to use strictly for work purposes. You’re convinced the old laptop knows you’re cheating on it with the younger model, and will soon have its revenge, but you’ll cross that bridge when you come to it.

So, 2016 self, a lot has changed, but a lot has stayed the same. You still have weird eating habits, but your arteries haven’t give up yet. You’re not sure why you’ve become a nursing home for elderly laptops, because even your father thinks you should get rid of this one – and he owns a robe that’s older than you are. Hopefully, maybe, these charming oddities are balanced out by all of your successes, such as your impressive vacuuming, your big job change, and the fact that you washed your car the other day.

Just as you suspected, 2017 You is doing just fine. Okay…maybe even more than fine 🙂

This blog-child of mine has officially been in existence for one year now! Yay! In honor of this event, I’ve decided to write an EPIC poem that shamelessly links back to previous posts.

Just to be clear, I’m not calling it “epic” in order to compliment it. (Although I DO compliment my blog. I love you, blog. You’re beautiful.) No, an epic poem is one that is long, and usually about some sort of heroic feat. The definition doesn’t stipulate what “long” means, nor does it specify what entails a “heroic feat,” so I’m going to take advantage of this loophole and refer to my work here as epic.

After all, one MIGHT say that keeping a blog is a heroic feat. I don’t know who that person is, but they very well could exist.

I’m just going to leave this here and back away slowly before you can argue with me…

My family isn’t safe from spotlight –
You’ve heard about Mom, Dad, and Grandma.
They weren’t too thrilled with my “pantyless” tale
(But they should be used to my choices by now.)

In an ideal world I’d include ALL my posts
But that poem would be meters long.
My brain is too full of useless info,
But for my finale: here’s the carb song.

Thank you to everyone who’s taken the time over this past year to read my posts, and even better, leave comments with your thoughts! I love you all, and if I were having a birthday party for my blog, I’d totally invite you over for cake. Unless the cake was that multi-layer fudgy chocolate kind, and then I’m not sharing any. You understand.

I’ve had a lot of fun so far, and am looking forward to the next kabillion years of blog-keeping! ❤

It’s been many a fortnight since my friend and I have gone on a queso quest, so we decided to pay a little visit to the Texas Chili Parlor on Saturday night. For anyone who may not know, my friend Amanda and I taste-test chips and queso at different restaurants in the Austin, Texas area. We judge the melty cheese on its consistency and flavor, and give it a score between 0 and 5.

Texas Chili Parlor is set in the spleen of downtown Austin, so naturally, our mission began with a $20 parking garage fee. Don’t you hate parking garages? They suck you in, spin you in circles, and then spit you out on the opposite side of the building, so you have no idea where you are. They’re like concrete tornados. They’re also creepy and shadowy and murdery.

Not once have I died in a parking garage, but I’m pretty convinced that it’ll happen one day.

After leaving the concrete pit of doom, we had a short walk to the bar, which turned out to be the diviest dives of all the dives. The word “parlor” makes me think of wicker furniture and china tea sets – and this place was the exact opposite of that, complete with a flickering Bud Light sign, and a painted mural of a jungle scene. It was perfect. To add to the ambiance, a giant TV was playing the University of Texas football game, and every time they scored, the bar blared the UT fight song from the speakers. Luckily, this didn’t happen often… if you get what I’m saying.

The menu offered several different types of chili, made with various forms of animal flesh. Upon our server’s advice, we ordered our queso containing the Red XX chili, and anxiously awaited its arrival.

Hey, Queso. How YOU doin’?

Before we mixed the chili and queso together in righteous harmony, it was important to take a few bites with only cheese. You know, for science. We both agreed that the queso had a nice cheesy flavor, but no spice. It was also rather drippy in consistency. Sans chili, this dish would’ve been ho-hum.

But the bites with chili and cheese together? An extravaganza of yum. The meat was clearly the star of the show, but the cheese was a respectable accompaniment, and together, they created beautiful music. All of my troubles melted away. I forgot all about the concrete tornado. I didn’t even touch my margarita after the food came, which should show you how distracted and in love I was.

I was fighting to keep from eating it like a soup.

This wasn’t our first experience with chili-filled queso, but this is the only one that really counts in our hearts. We gave Texas Chili Parlor an impressive 3.9 score.

The deliciousness didn’t stop there. Feeling adventurous, Amanda and I decided to order two different kinds of the Chili Mac & Cheese – one with Venison, and one with White Pork – so that we didn’t have to leave having tried only one type. Both chilis came with beans, which goes against the usual Texas tradition, though I’m not sure why.

Probably, our state just doesn’t want food to be nutritious in even the slightest of ways.

We tasted our own orders, and then quickly traded bowls and tried each other’s. It was practically an orgy of chili and cheese. If you’re disturbed by that thought, then you’ll feel even weirder to know that things got a little sweaty. No, seriously, the place was pretty warm already, and then with all the spicy chili we consumed, we got hot.

The food doesn’t look that beautiful, and the terrible lighting makes it look even worse – but it certainly tasted beautiful. The White Pork and Red XX were our favorites, with the Venison one proving somewhat inferior, yet still tasty. I will definitely be back to this place. Possibly tomorrow.

I usually post a link to the restaurant’s website, but the classy parlor doesn’t have one. If you’re new to my blog, visit The Reason for the Cheesin to understand this cheesy project.

A couple of days ago, I waxed poetically complained about my mutant eye disease. I’m happy to say that I simply have a mild (though mysteriously-obtained) eyelid infection, and I should be back to overusing eyeliner in no time!

“That’s good. You looked like Quasimodo, but without the hump.” – My mom

Damn. She’s not wrong.

The upside to this appointment (aside from the fact that my eye is not going to spontaneously fall out of my head), is that my eye doctor paid me a lovely compliment. He took note of the fact that my toenail polish, shirt, and purse all (unintentionally) match today, and told me I “looked fancy.”

I fluttered my crusty and swollen eyelid at him in response.

The downside to this appointment was entering the exam room and feeling like I’d crossed the threshold into my own personal torture chamber. It was like someone had asked me to write down my least favorite things in the world, and then charged me an insurance copay to experience them. Granted, the room didn’t include knives and chains and fire, so it wasn’t THAT torturous. It was more of a modest torture chamber. You know, as opposed to a severe one.

First of all, directly across from the exam chair, there hangs a huge, floor-to-ceiling mirror. Therefore, as a I sat in the chair, I was forced to look in this mirror and witness what my hips and thighs look like when I’m sitting. Everything just sort of….spreads out.

Perturbed by the sight, I started adjusting my sitting positions and leg placements in order to get the most attractive angle.

Yes, this looks totally natural.

To add insult to injury, the office radio started playing the song, “Maria” by Brooks & Dunn. I have held an unwavering hatred of that song since I was 4 years old. The song didn’t even come out until I was 8, so that should show you how much I hate it. When it plays, I want to stab someone, vomit, and cry, all at the same time.

Seriously, it’s like listening to a bag of cats being set on fire. I just can’t do it. I can’t. No.

The only way this (modest) torture chamber could have been made worse is if the office staff had somehow managed to waft the smells of gasoline and burned popcorn through the vents. Even worse, if they’d dangled a platter of chips and queso above my head – just ever-so-slightlyyy out of my reach.

All in all, I’d say the compliment and positive eye news almost balance out the wretched song and thigh view. It’s a close call, though, so I may have to have a glass of wine just to make for certain the day ends well.

Weapons and fire aside, what would be your idea of a personal torture chamber? Would there be a certain song or noise playing? A specific smell? What other factors would be present?

When shopping near a Mexican food restaurant that might potentially serve you queso, enter said restaurant, demand piles of cheese, and write a review for your blog.

That second phrase may not be as catchy as the first one, but it’s great advice.

Saturday, I ran errands around Austin, eventually meeting up with my fellow cheeseketeer at a mall, where she was shopping for school clothes with her kids. The trio was tired and in need of sustenance, and I’m rarely one to turn down delicious foodstuffs, so we all decided that Mexican food was in order.

The wonders of the Internet lead us to a nearby restaurant called Lupe Tortilla. After being seated at a table with a sombrero light fixture, we ordered a bowl of Chile con Queso with taco meat, mentally patting ourselves on the back for ordering the regular size, instead of the large. We’re such health nuts.

As we waited for the food, we sat back to admire the restaurant’s ant-pig-gecko-swordfish theme. Take a moment to let that artistry soak into your brain.

Nonsensical? Probably. Festive? Definitely.

Before we get into the queso review, I want you to see this picture of four tiny baby fajitas that the restaurant gave us just for being first-time patrons:

I felt overly affectionate toward these little guys. Their cuteness had me wanting to wrap them up and take them home with me to keep forever in a special refrigerated shadow box.

On the other hand, their deliciousness had me wanting to shove my friend’s kids out of the way, so I could devour the fetus fajitas on my own.

Soon after polishing off my one fajita, the queso arrived:

Amanda’s ravenous and cheese-loving children were eager to offer perfect scores, but my friend and I exchanged dubious glances. The queso had a decent consistency – it was liquidy, but not too runny. It also had a nice level of spice, and the meat was relatively flavorful.

However, we were 100% convinced that this queso was made primarily of Velveeta, or one of its spongy cousins. To be fair, Velveeta is probably added to many of the quesos we’ve tasted, because it lends a creamier texture. BUT, ideally, the dish should still taste like some kind of real, actual cheese. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

It’s just cheddar that way.

We settled on a score of 3 for Lupe Tortilla’s Chile con Queso. All in all, we found the dish to be stable, but not amazing. In other words, it was the exact opposite of Britney Spears.

One kabillion years from now, when I look back on my career, the work accomplishment I think I’ll be most proud of will be the time that I somehow convinced multiple coworkers to bring me different types of cheese.

Let me set the scene for you. Almost every month, my agency has a potluck lunch to celebrate any employees’ birthdays that occurred during that month. Knowing how much my cheese wife and I adore queso, someone made a harmless-but-genius joke back in June that the next potluck should be queso-themed.

Amanda and I immediately latched on to this idea as though it were a life preserve and we were drowning in the ocean. Our eyes got big. We clapped our hands. We bounced up and down. The joke-maker tried to take her suggestion back, but at this point, it was too late. The toothpaste was already out of the tube.

The Queso Palooza potluck finally rolled around last Wednesday. Five generous coworkers brought their own beloved queso creations and set up camp in the kitchen. Crockpots occupied every available electrical outlet. Bags of chips were poured into bowls. Some clever human even brought cheesecake for dessert.

It was a lot like how the Mayans used to please their gods by making animal sacrifices. Only, instead of gods, my coworkers were trying to impress two cheese-crazed humans. And instead of animal sacrifices, there were just cheese offerings.

So, to sum it up, it was nothing like the Mayans.

Amanda and I gathered samples of each cheese and sequestered ourselves in the conference room to conduct our official judging business. Regretfully, I was too hypnotized by all the quesos to remember to take pictures of them. But I did take diligent notes!

Queso #1 got us off to an excellent start with a smooth, creamy consistency that didn’t harden even as it cooled. Queso #2 contained white cheese (which we tend to prefer) and poblano peppers.

Appearance-wise, Queso #3 looked more like a chili than a queso, with its liquidy consistency and big chunks of onion and peppers. But it was very flavorful. Like the mad scientists we are, we mixed Quesos #3 and #1 together and found success.

Quesos #4 and #5 were the unique ones of the bunch, as #4 was the only one to be broiled in a skillet (and involve Gouda), and #5 was the only one to contain meat.

All of the quesos had their strengths and weaknesses, but the two we couldn’t stop snacking on were #1 and #4. We ended up awarding the grand prize trophy to Queso #4, which turned out to have been cooked by our supervisor. She triumphantly celebrated her victory.

Awarded to “The Big Cheese”

Also, I feel like I should mention that all participants were given scratch-off tickets as a thank-you for humoring us, so at least we’re somewhat appreciative gods cheese-crazed humans.

If you were having a potluck meal and could pick the theme, what would you go with? Breakfast foods? Desserts? Various quesos?

Once upon a time, a cheese blogger and her friend thought it’d be fun to walk a mile in the late-afternoon Texas heat. To be more specific, they’d thought it’d be fun to attend a free concert in a park, and as it turned out, the Walk of Death was part of the package.

Soon into the walk, the two out-of-shapers were red-faced and out of breath, and sweat was pooling in places that it shouldn’t pool. And running down places it shouldn’t run. The two briefly wondered if perhaps they’d gotten trapped in the gym sock of a sweaty giant. They began to see mirages made of frozen margaritas.

The delusions and hallucinations were a clearly a bad sign.

Then – behold! A restaurant appearing in the distance! With patio tables and people drinking cold things. The weary travelers clung to each other in desperation, and then quickly let go because they were sweaty and it was gross. But, they weakly encouraged each other to continue just a little longer, and soon they were seated in the cool air conditioning of The Shady Grove, sipping icy drinks.

The evil hot ball in the sky had zapped their appetites, a rare phenomenon in the journeyers’ lives. However, the two knew it’d be important to eat something in order to continue the long and sweat-filled journey to the park, so they agreed to split a snack. They opened their menus, and, pleased to see bowls of melty cheese available, ordered one with pulled pork, pico de gallo, and guacamole.

Even in their fatigued and dehydrated states, they were able to accurately judge the queso and render a verdict. Here’s the breakdown:

Consistency: While other porky cheeses have been rather runny, this one was pleasantly creamy. (“Porky cheese” doesn’t sound right, but I’m sticking with it.)

Spice: Had a bit. Could’ve had a bit more.

Flavor: The pork was the best we’ve had so far – very tender and flavorful. The cheese had a “real” taste to it, not like a certain brick-shaped synthetic cheese product we all know and love. Still, it certainly could have been cheesier.

A bored Amanda is a slightly dangerous thing. Not dangerous in a “let’s go rob a bank!” way, or even a “let’s get into a rumble with a gang of knife-wielding possum!” way. It’s really more of a “that thing you’re doing? It’s strange.” way.

When I found myself bored and plan-less on a recent Friday night, I did what all red-blooded twenty-something Americans do: I decided to engage in some formal scientific research. Naturally, I didn’t want the research to be dull, so I chose a topic that greatly interests me.

Cheese.

Right away, I realized that cheese can be smushed into the word “research” in order to create “cheesearch.” You’re welcome. I thought it was a pretty good scientific finding all on its own, so I considered calling it quits on the rest of the research, because it clearly wasn’t going to get any better than that. Nevertheless, I persevered.

I elected to conduct my research via a certain educational and evidence-based website known as “Urban Dictionary.” Well-meaning and science-appreciating people can submit their definitions of the slang words that you can’t typically find in a normal dictionary.

Urban Dictionary started out as a way to help less-hip folk keep up with the grooviest of young people. Of course, with time, the definitions have gotten grosser and more perverse because it’s the Internet, and the Internet ruins everything.

Willing to take on the wickedness, I bravely ventured to the site in order to research the various meanings of the word “queso.” If you’re confused as to why I’d do this, please re-read the first paragraph of this post.

Things started out innocently enough…

Points for simplicity and accuracy. And for the word “gringo.”

I soon learned that there is a name for people like me.

I’d really like to meet that John fellow.

I even gathered some healthy dinner ideas!

Save the baby tortilla chips!

Then I started to worry, because I was drawing some mental connections to the definition of alcoholism. Get out of here, knowledge of addictions! We have no use for you here.

And this is when the definitions started to get a little unusual, though not entirely inaccurate…

Just find someone whose breath smells like chips, and you’re good.

Okay, now we’re definitely headed down a weird path.

Oh. Oh.

This one scores points for the geography lesson.

Honestly, these last few weren’t even the strangest of the bunch, but I don’t think I should contribute to the corruption of all of your minds. That’s a lot of mind-damage, and I really don’t want to get another call from the FBI wondering why I continue to disturb people. If you’re still up for a little corruptin,’ feel free to mosey your way over to Urban Dictionary and see for yourself.

I think we all learned some important vocabulary here today! Who are my fellow “quesophiles” out there? Have any of you tried a delicious (and apparently economic-friendly) queso salad, or endured a terrible quesover? What other Urban Dictionary searches have you done?

I had a bunch of little stories (or storylettes, if you will) from this week, but none of them were interesting enough or detailed enough to deserve their own individual posts, so I decided to combine them all into one big one.

It’s a smorgasbord of hilarity.

By happy accident, my storylettes started to develop an oddly “American Way” theme to them. In honor of Independence Day (not the Will Smith movie, but the holiday), I decided to continue that theme with pride.

Love of Television

This past week, I had a case of the “blahs.” You know what I’m talking about. The “blahs” are when you feel bored and unmotivated to do much else other than sitting at home, pantsless. Rather than fighting or denying that blah feeling, I fully embraced it by watching A LOT of television every day after work.

Now, I’m going to let you in on a little secret about TV-watching. But you can’t tell anyone, because the FBI will probably show up and revoke my U.S. citizenship for criticizing this great American pastime.

The secret is that I re-remembered for the zillionth time that it doesn’t make me feel better to come home from work and stare at the TV for 5 hours until I go to bed.

Hold on, I just heard a noise. Gonna go check to see if any agents are hiding in my bushes.

I’m back. It was just a squirrel.

I don’t think TV is evil, but for me, it needs to be balanced with other activities, such as reading, a little exercise, some more reading, and maybe even some sunset-appreciating.

Taken just outside Austin, TX

Adding a little balance just makes me feel better about my world.

Manners

I ate a dinner of biscuits the other night. Not biscuits with eggs, nor biscuits with fried chicken. Just biscuits.

This one was surprisingly upbeat after being forced from its tin home and baked in a 400-degree oven:

Look at that smirk. Bastard knows he’s good looking.

I’m not sure what this section has to do with America, aside from the fact that I just wanted to share it. I guess this biscuit, like Americans, is pretty friendly. There. I justified it!

Hot Dogs

Over the weekend, I went on a little road trip with Cheese Friend to drop her children off at their grandfather’s. Supportive of our inspirational queso project, Cheese Friend’s dad (hereby known as Cheese Dad) offered to make us a pot of the cheesy, spicy substance. We tried to turn him down, but Cheese Dad insisted, so we gave in. Also, we didn’t really turn him down in the first place.

Cheese Dad kindly dictated his recipe to me so that I could share it with my fellow dairy lovers. Fair warning: simply reading this recipe might cause your arteries to instantly harden.

Somehow, a few hot dogs accidentally fell into a pot of boiling water, and then made their way onto bun-shaped life preserves, where they were soothed with a smattering of chili. And then this happened:

Hot dogs with chili and queso. If you’re keeping count, this meal contained 3 different kinds of meat. ‘Merica

“Patriotism”

I encouraged my best friend to act like a nationalistic fool while she’s visiting Ireland. This is how I show my loyalty and love to my country.

Dehydrated animals = Heaven

On our trip back from Cheese Dad’s, Amanda and I stopped at a store called Venison World, where we stocked up on treats like deer jerky and chocolate-covered almonds. If that isn’t already USA enough, this store exists in a town called Eden.

A meat-themed store in a town named after paradise? Why, it just don’t get any more ‘Merica than that.

…Unless a bald eagle had swooped down and stolen the jerky right out of my hands. And then carried it off to a nest of baby eagles being guarded by a camo-wearing eagle holding a shotgun.

So! How were your 4th of July celebrations? Are you going to give me up to the FBI for mildly criticizing America’s favorite technological pastime? Perhaps most importantly, how do you feel about smiling biscuits?